by Tim Baker
Boom.
I can feel the panic naming names always causes.
‘Why, that dirty . . . ’
‘Shut up, you fucking prick, can’t you see he’s lying!’ Another voice. Gravelled and coarse. Limned with the drawl of the gutter. Thickened from a heavy cold. Or a broken nose. ‘Fuck the old cripple, he’s finished!’
‘Don’t write the Old Man off. He’s been one step ahead of you from the start. Call him . . . ’ Then I nail the voice. ‘Go on—call him yourself, Rico.’
There we go.
Another bombshell in the room. I can almost feel the tremor of its explosion. There’s the simmer of exposure. I move in for the kill. ‘The Old Man told me everything.’
‘And what exactly did my husband tell you?’ Her voice is languid; thrilling me with its rich timbre. No matter what, I know I will always be under its spell.
I have to improvise fast. ‘He told me why you wanted your nephew dead, Mrs. Bannister.’
Upside down, moving into the aura of the spotlight, comes Mrs. Bannister’s face, haloed by radiance. If it’s the last thing I’m going to see, I can’t complain. An angel would have been proud of a face like that, and pride was the sin that had sent so many of them straight to Hell. ‘The arrogance of men . . . ’ She grabs me by the hair and taps my head against marble. ‘You’re always so sure you have all the answers.’ I can smell her perfume riding high and imperious above the acrid bile in my throat. I almost had my left foot free. It was one long length of rope and it was beginning to unravel, just like this case. ‘You don’t even know who Ronnie’s father really is . . . ’
‘Shut up.’ Goodwin James’s voice explodes behind her. ‘The less he knows, the better.’
‘What does it matter? He’s not going to be around much longer.’ The certainty in her voice was devastating. It was the same certainty I heard when she told me she knew I’d find the boy. Could she be lying again? And then I see it: her wink. ‘I think Mr. Alston has earned the right to know the truth . . . ’
Someone slaps her hard, turning her with the blow, the fist passing close enough for me to seize with my freed hand, swinging Goodwin James over my body as I roll off the altar, tugging him along with me, my right hand still attached, James tumbling onto the floor, his head striking the ground as I fall on top of him, the altar upended, my right hand throbbing and finally free, the unravelled cord tightening about his neck. I look around. Rico has already gone; the only trace of him ever being there is the sole of one of his water-ruined shoes. Mrs. Bannister is on the floor, groggy from the slap. I whisper into Goodwin James’s cauliflower ear. ‘Where’s the boy?’
Defiant silence. I tighten the cord. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds . . . ’ A gasp, not of acquiescence but of pain. I wind the rope around my fists, shortening its length to give me added strength, the hemp burning my palms . . . ‘Last chance. Where is he?’
Goodwin James makes a rushing noise like a pearl diver coming up for air. ‘Hastings. He’s with Hastings.’
‘Where can I find Hastings . . . ?’
‘I don’t know—’ A choking sound, and something else—a cry: fear of death. He’s telling the truth. I let go of the rope, and he sighs into unconsciousness. I struggle to my feet and walk towards Betty Bannister, who slides away from me on the marble floor. I point back to Goodwin James, still crumpled beside the overturned altar. ‘You’re next, Mrs. Bannister. So help me, God, unless you start talking, you’re next . . .’
‘I can’t . . . ’
I grab her wrist and yank her to her feet, half pulling, half throwing her towards the chimney. ‘Show me the way out . . . ’ She looks at me then points to the chamber door. ‘I mean the secret way.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to find the boy and bring him back alive. Just like I promised.’
‘I want him protected.’
‘How can I protect him when I don’t know where he is?’
‘Promise you’ll protect him.’
‘Take me to him.’
She turns away. I look at the way she’s set her jaw. She’s strong, this one. Stronger than me. It’s hopeless unless I agree. ‘All right, I promise. Now get me the hell out of here.’
She steps into the fireplace, triggering a lever under the lintel, then sliding open a panel obscured by soot. I glance back one last time at the still unconscious Goodwin James, then follow Mrs. Bannister into the huge, tubular flue. Iron rungs lead up the ancient well. Halfway up we pass three large circular openings giving on to separate ancient water pipes. I gesture for her to choose one of them. She peers into the darkness, then turns back to me. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not . . . ’
Neither would I. ‘Where do they lead?’
‘Everywhere. To the pool house, the stables, the garage . . . ’ The garage—where Hastings worked. ‘Some come out into the neighbouring properties. One leads all the way to Greystone Park.’
‘Just the thing for a picnic . . . Which one did your sister take?’
She turns, looking down at me. ‘The wrong one.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t make the same mistake.’
She doesn’t answer; just continues up the rungs. Some are missing. Some feel loose as hell. I look down the shaft and freeze. Perfect. If there’s anything stronger than my claustrophobia, it’s my vertigo. I look back up at Mrs. Bannister, who’s suddenly far above me. Something slides away in front of her and she disappears.
What the hell was I thinking? I’ve let her escape.
I hurry after her, hoping I can find the trigger to open the secret panel. But then her hand appears, guiding me out of the narrow opening. Shame and relief: maybe I can trust her after all?
Moonlight washes through the great windows, filling the reception hall with a ghostly radiance. She looks around suddenly, putting a finger to her lips. Her eyes are large with trepidation. ‘Listen. Can you hear it?’
‘What?’
‘That strange noise . . . What is it?’
‘My teeth, Mrs. Bannister. In case you didn’t notice, I took a bath with my clothes on.’
‘I’m so sorry, but you see . . . ’
I grab her by the elbows and push her back against the wall. ‘No, you see! What the hell was that all about? Luring me up here.’
‘I assure you, I never called you . . . ’
‘Just like you never had me sapped and tossed into the pool. I could have drowned!’
‘But you didn’t. Because I made sure they pulled you out. I had no idea they were going to hit you. After they did, they wanted to finish you off there and then, but I convinced them you had information. Information they needed.’
‘Much obliged for arranging my torture. Oh, you’re good, Mrs. Bannister, you’re awful good . . . ’ Something grabs my attention in the centre of the room. A trolley bar. I pour myself a big brandy. ‘Let me tell you, it didn’t look like you were on my side when they put me on the goddamn rack.’ A troubling heat fills me with its sluicing presence. I pour myself another.
‘Go easy, Mr. Alston, the night’s not over yet.’ Hard to say if that’s a promise, or a threat. Her face goes blue then yellow with the flame of a cigarette lighter. She hands the cigarette to me. ‘I don’t know who told you to come out here, but in the run of things, they did me a favour . . . ’
‘If that’s their idea of a favour, next time tell them to just send flowers.’
‘We escaped, didn’t we?’
‘Cute.’
‘Who do you think left one of your hands untied?’ My face must be looking a little goofy because she’s smiling at it. ‘Believe what you want, I’ve been on your side from the very beginning . . .’ She grabs my wrist, her grip fierce. ‘They said they would kill me if I didn’t hand over Ronnie.’
‘What do they want? A million like the others?’
&
nbsp; ‘They don’t want money, Mr. Alston, they want control—of my husband.’
‘What kind of control?’
‘They want him to support Kennedy against Nixon.’
‘It doesn’t make sense, to kidnap a child just for that.’
‘You don’t understand, Mr. Alston. My husband decides who becomes president. It’s been like that since Dewey lost in ’48. Rex gave Truman California, Illinois and Nevada. And Truman gave him Korea in return. There’s nothing like a war for making money.’
‘But we’re a democracy!’
‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Alston, I really am . . . ’ She hurries me across the room. ‘Now we have to hurry. Hastings will be getting anxious.’ I bang into something in the dark, stubbing my toe hard. The ring of the rocking vase is almost as loud as my curse.
‘Please, Mr. Alston, that’s Ming Dynasty—it’s priceless.’
And my toe isn’t. I get the picture.
‘Here . . . ’ She pulls a long coat off a hall rack. ‘That should keep you warm.’
‘You take it. You’re . . . ’ Practically naked in that dress.
‘I have this.’ She throws on a black satin cape. We wait by the door, peering outside, searching the shadows for movement, then I yank it open, the shivering wind tormenting us as we run to her car, my hand on her elbow as she almost stumbles. I go to drive but she slips in behind the wheel. I get in on the other side. ‘Where to?’
‘What time is it?’
’It must be around midnight.’
‘There’s a pickup on South Street at Broxton Avenue . . . If we hurry, we can make it.’
The squeal of acceleration and the stutter of tires skidding on gravel. She hits the headlights. ‘Maybe you should wait until we’re out?’ There is a shot behind us, agreeing with me. She accelerates towards the gates. I turn back and catch a glimpse of muzzle flash as Rico fires again from a second-story window, the whine of a bullet biting bark close by. The bounce and shrieking protest of chrome against bitumen gives way to the glide of the road as we speed away through the night. I turn to Betty Bannister, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her hair restless in the wind, the flash of passing headlights peeping inside her cape.
‘What’s the pickup?’
She turns to me, her eyes emerald in the streetlight. ‘Ronnie Bannister of course . . . ’
A moment I had stopped believing in: the end of the case. ‘Start at the beginning. Who snatched the kid?’
‘It was Elaine’s idea . . . ’
One of my earliest hunches. Not kidnapping for ransom but abduction by a desperate parent. A loon mother battling the most influential man in the nation. That explains Elaine’s motive, but what about the others? Their instincts were more predatory than paternal. ‘What do Rico and Goodwin James want?’
‘They’re just foot soldiers.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know. What’s their motive?’
‘Manipulation and revenge.’
A car rockets in front of us, Mrs. Bannister almost clipping it, a shouted curse already left behind. I turn back. ‘That was a red light.’
‘We have to hurry . . . ’
‘Who’s being manipulated?’
She turns, staring at me. ‘The manipulators themselves.’
I steady her steering wheel as she strays towards oncoming traffic. ‘Can the cryptic stuff. Your husband, is that it?’
‘What you have to understand, Mr. Alston, is that Ronnie Bannister is worth hundreds of millions of dollars to my husband. He is the key to the presidential elections.’
‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Is it?’ A horn sends a wail of alarm our way as she again skates onto the wrong side of the road. I yank us back to safety. She doesn’t even react. Nothing seems to rattle her. She is the most unique creature I have ever met. ‘Imagine if you had the means of handing the election to Kennedy . . . Or stealing it from him. Wouldn’t you use it?’
‘This doesn’t make sense . . . Hey, watch it!’
Mrs. Bannister brakes fast, a gust of wind filling the convertible, her cape billowing open with its touch. ‘Why doesn’t it make sense?’
‘For starters, your husband made Nixon. Besides, why would he even consider supporting a Democrat like Kennedy?’
‘You’re talking about political preferences, Mr. Alston. My husband belongs to a small group of pragmatic men who are far beyond mere politics. They operate in a world where the only things that matter are power, money and control.’
‘So what is it they want?’
‘Depends which one of them you talk to. Sonny wants military contracts.’
‘Sonny?’
‘Howard Hughes. H.L. Hunt and Clint Murchison want to maintain tax breaks for Big Oil. And Rex wants the Federal Reserve to remain in private hands—his hands—with no possibility of congressional oversight or auditing. Nixon will give them all those things, of course, but Kennedy won’t, you see. His father will make sure of that.’
‘His father’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Alston . . . ’ She leans forward to light her cigarette with the car lighter, exposing the lines of her shoulders. ‘The people think they’ll be electing Jack but they’ll really be electing Joe, and believe me, based upon his past history, Joe Kennedy will block any contracts for Sonny and will certainly oppose any war. He’ll punish Big Oil by taking away their tax concessions. And he’ll ensure that the Fed’s powers are transferred to the Treasury Department.’
‘Why would a banker like him do that?’
‘As I said, manipulation and revenge . . . The Fed wouldn’t let Joe join their club. Sometimes, Mr. Alston, when an exclusive club is threatened, the best thing to do is to open your doors just a little wider. But when letting in a man like Joe Kennedy will cost everyone else billions . . . Well, a crack feels kind of like a canyon.’
‘Why bother with Kennedy? Why not just support Nixon?’
‘Because Rex never permits chance to interfere in any of his business dealings. Besides, Nixon is Sonny’s man now. He bought Dick for a lousy $200,000. Rex was very upset, as you can imagine . . . ’
As if I can imagine buying a presidential candidate. So this is the Big Steal in our new, modern decade: the presidency. I suddenly feel very old.
The light turns green but she doesn’t move. ‘To tell you the truth, Mrs. Bannister, I have enough trouble just filling out my income tax. All this talk about banks and the Federal Reserve is way over my head. How exactly does Ronnie Bannister fit in?’
‘You disappoint me, Mr. Alston . . . ’ She puts her foot down on the accelerator and the car rushes into the night. ‘How’s this for simple: Ronnie Bannister’s father is JFK.’
BOOK THREE
The Long Oblivion
CHAPTER 45
Dallas 1963
Hastings watched the country changing beneath him, the blue promise of the Pacific poorly traded for the equivocal collage of basalt, granite and bruised desert; of lonely roads leading to box canyons and dried riverbeds.
Dead ends.
The click of ice brought him back to the dark, internal reality of the jet plane; of the private claustrophobia of his plans. He reduced them all to a basic, understandable formula: things would work out and everyone would live, or they wouldn’t, and everyone would die. Three JTS Browns, a fistful of cashews and a half-pack of Pall Malls later, and Hastings was in Dallas.
He stepped out of the plane, the passenger in front almost tripping down the airstair, the sun angling cunningly into everyone’s eyes. Welcomers huddled behind the rope at the other end of a tarmac sticky with afternoon heat and purging jet air, anxious faces peering past him—Hastings, always the invisible man.
Hastings snatched his suitcases from a passing trolley as he walked tow
ards the terminal, Albert Luchino’s smile giving way to surprise when he saw his face. He reached for the larger of the suitcases, which held his matériel. Hastings passed him the smaller one instead. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Someone didn’t like my driving . . . ’
Luchino tossed him a set of car keys and pointed to a burgundy Citroën DS19 Cabriolet. ‘Maybe you need more practice . . . ’
Hastings glanced in the rearview mirror as they left Love Field. A red and white ’58 DeSoto Firesweep pulled out after them, riding high through traffic on its blinding chrome. ‘Anyone you know?’
Luchino glanced in the side mirror. ‘Our friends from Miami . . . ’
Miami. Candy-coloured cars and Technicolor shirts. Domino bars with grandpas and gunrunners. CIA listening posts, tapped phones and juiced horses out at Hialeah Park. Always Boom, Bubble, Bust. And now the biggest Bang of all threatening to explode right over the city, a mushroom cloud menace from the sunny south. Castro, Commies and the Kremlin. They did it once, they could do it again. Sub the missiles in, hide them in the jungle and then take the city out with a single OSA torpedo boat.
Miami.
So hot it was atomic. Too big to ignore, too wild to take seriously. CIA were bossing the whole operation, no questions asked. Its agents were going to take down Fidel their way. That meant dirty money and lots of it. Cocaine cash. Gunrunner payoffs. Big Oil dollars by the fifty-five-gallon drum. CIA were loaded. They ran the show. And now Miami CIA had come to Dallas, which meant they knew about the hit and were going to stop it. Or they were going to let it happen. Hell, Hastings thought, they could even be controlling the hit. Anything was possible when you had a room full of exiles, agents and gangsters loaded on Cuba Libres and Gran Coronas playing “who’s got the biggest dick”.
’I can lose them . . . ’
‘Don’t. It’s better for us to know where we can find them, if we need to, n’est-ce pas?’ French, the language of diplomacy, always served with two bottles of wine. One to get you to talk. One to silence you, maybe forever. Luchino turned, offering Hastings a Gitanes Maïs as he studied his face. ‘They asked me to find some files . . . ’